From Clay

I would love the way you wounded me
even if I did not love you;
only some kind of divine perfection
must know how to bleed a man that much
and still leave life remaining.
God,
you,
the perfect sadist,
make me want to live just a little longer,
to suffer just a little more.
I’d burn churches in your name,
and hang upon your cross,
and forever be a cannibal of your flesh
if only you would destroy me,
bring me down to ash,
to build me up again, from clay.